John, if you live to be one hundred
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: Think of a world where Sherlock Holmes really died. No tricks, no last chances. Sherlock Holmes killed himself to save John. John is remembering a night he once had with Sherlock, aged 7, and discussing the matter of living to 100. 'If you live to only be a hundred… I want to be one-hundred minus a day. So then I won't have to face the world without my best friend, even for a day.'


John and Sherlock were on the flat bits of roof on 358 Crescent drive.

John didn't have a house like this. It was huge, and seemingly forever expanding- however, John had quickly realised that that didn't matter to Sherlock. It didn't matter that Sherlock was richer, smarter or better looking than him.

That, dear reader, is what friendship is about.

They had crawled out of Sherlocks window and dropped onto the little flat part of the roof- there wasn't much of it before it sloped downwards with the house, but it was much better than watching from inside, sat on the window sill.

John loved astronomy. He loved the sheer complexity of the millions of Glittering starts, that were splodged like glitter in the sky. The moons majestic beauty was there, hanging silver in the English country sky; next to it (but still impossibly far away) there was a small octopus looking group of stars. A galaxy. Then, on the other side, was a small, blue-ish planet; Venus, if the tiny seven year old wasn't mistaken.

'See that one there?' John pointed to illustrate the tiny little blob of Venus. 'That one is Venus, and you can never ever go there, 'cause not even a special spaceman can't.'

'Why not?' asked the seven year old next to him, the one with the knobbly knees and sharp elbows and crooked grin that was spread across his features right this moment.

''Cause you cant. The clouds- the stuff that makes it blue- will dissolve you and any spaceship you want to land on there. And then the gravity will crush you what's left of you.'

The two seven year olds dissolved into giggles. John ran a hand through his medium flaxen hair, a grin spreading across his face. Sherlocks curls were bouncing in time with his body, which was wracking with silent laughter. They had to quiet- or Mr and Mrs Holmes would wake up. They wouldn't be pleased if they found out.

Little John scooted towards Sherlock ever so slightly, drawing the fluffy blanket closer around them. You could almost hear Sherlock thinking, his pale face almost screwed up with the effort. Finally, he spoke:

'John, can I, or will I ever be able to go to Venus?'

John spluttered, but Sherlock remained adamant, his big lips pressed in a hard line and his pale eyes sparkling mischievously.

'No! Sherlock, it'd kill you!' John was getting a bit upset at the thought of never seeing his best friend again. 'Sherlock, promise me you won't!'

There was a slight pause.

'Why?'

John actually twisted round to look at Sherlock. It didn't look like a joke, or a trick- Sherlock couldn't actually contemplate why John didn't want him to die.

''Lock, make a deduction!' Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but impatient John cut across him. '-It's 'cause I care about you, dummy!'

Sherlock looked at his friend curiously, and checked him for signs of lying. There was none… John Watson was telling him the truth.

'You do?'

'Of course I do!'

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before he sighed and drew the blanket even closer around them.

'John?' He whispered after a few minutes.

'Yeah?' came the small reply from the boy next to him.

'Promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even if we live to be one hundred.'

'How old will I be then?'

'One hundred, but a month after your birthday I'll be a hundred too.'

'Oh, okay. I promise, Sherlock.' John smiled at his friend in the dark, and Sherlock responded in kind.

'But that's fine, because I wont live to be a hundred. You will, though.'

Panic rose up in John Watson, and he shifted so that he could get a good view of Sherlocks face. 'Why not?' He demanded, frowning. 'Why won't you live to be a hundred?'

'Because, if you live to be a hundred… I want to be one-hundred minus a day. So then I won't have to face the world without my best friend and blogger, even for such a short time as one hour.'

'So what does that make us, then?'

Sherlock paused for a minute, working it out in a way that John would understand.

'It means that you are my best friend, and will be until the day I die. I don't want to live without you, because you are my heart to my brain. I _can't _live without you, John.'

John was so touched he wanted to cry. He wrapped his small arms around his taller friends waist, and so they sat, until the fell asleep.

It was one of the best nights of John Watsons life.

* * *

Sherlock never lived to be one hundred.

Though he was right about one thing; he would die before John Watson.

John had seen it- the smashed head, the thick blood swirling and decorated the pavement-

No. John couldn't think of that. Not right now- he'd thought of it every single day since his best friend had died. Couldn't he have one day- just one- of peace? Would that be so much to ask?

John caught sight of himself in the mirror. He still looked like he did fourty-six years ago to the day. Sure, slightly more wrinkled and weathered, paler, yes, but you could still tell by the eyes. The eyes were still a magnificent shade of blue- like Venus- and still showed the fighting spirit that was in his fail old body.

John Watson had just been up the graveyard, to place flowers on a grave. His best friends grave….. the worlds only consulting detectives grave… his brains grave…

Because Sherlock Holmes didn't live to be one hundred.

Imagen a world where Sherlock actually jumped off of the roofs of Barts, to save the lives of his friends. Funny, isn't it, dear reader? A self proclaimed sociopath killing himself for others?

The answer is 'no, not really'. He didn't do it for others. Sherlock did it for John. _His _John/

Because, in a world without John, Sherlock would've lost his heart. Sherlock would've become the cruel, possibly evil man that he didn't want to become... the one that he once was, held down by a demonic drug habit that was slowly killing him.

Sherlock also couldn't live… Not without John Watson, his heart. Returning to 221B and acting like John never existed, just so that he could avoid the pain? John would be six feet under, while Sherlock was still alive and breathing? Sherlock couldn't- and damn well wouldn't- do that.

But did Sherlock ever stop and think… John couldn't live without Sherlock Holmes, his brain, either?

John sighed. He was tired of fighting, not anymore. Even after so long, Sherlock Holmes was a legend. Every bloody anniversary, John didn't bother to buy the papers- they tried to outsmart the dead detective, but it never worked. His name, slightly tarnished, was still remembered because people brought it up, and with it, Johns too.

But that didn't matter. John, that day, had lost his brain forever. Remembering back, John choked on the memory…

_'Because, if you live to be a hundred… I want to be one-hundred minus a day. So then I won't have to face the world without my best friend and blogger, even for such a short time as one hour.'_

A tear rolled down his cheek and a broken sob suddenly claimed his chest.

This was a world where the self proclaimed sociopath learnt to love. The world where Sherlock Holmes didn't just fake his death- he actually did it, just to save the life of John Hamish Watson.

_'Promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even if we live to be one hundred...'_

John smiled. He wasn't one hundred (yet), but he would never, ever forget Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
